


Reciprocus

by Thoughts Like A Minefield (Incog_Ninja)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 04:32:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19804831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Incog_Ninja/pseuds/Thoughts%20Like%20A%20Minefield
Summary: written for @stusbunker Break My Heart ChallengePrompt: “I wasn’t supposed to have favorites.”





	Reciprocus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stunudo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stunudo/gifts).



Rule Number One – or at least one of the important rules – of being a teacher was: you aren’t supposed to play favorites. And I didn’t, not really. I didn’t _play_ favorites anyway, but I might’ve _had_ favorites.

Each year, semester, month, or week – one kid really spoke to me and I gravitated toward that kid and supported them, guided them, taught them as my job required me to do. If that was playing favorites, then I’d have accepted my guilt.

One month, it was Dean Winchester. Dean had a baby brother Sam, which I learned after I finally got him to start talking. Then, Dean would talk a lot about Sam and his uncle Bobby. Sometimes he would talk about his dad. Dean even had a talent for telling stories, which often featured his dad.

We had a storytelling hour like Show & Tell, but with fewer props and more transparency. The kids I had were all high-risk kids – troubled homes, alcoholic parents, etc. So, we just encouraged them to talk, to tell stories, fictional or otherwise.

And, man, could this sweet, little boy spin a yarn.

“So then this…” Dean’s eyes flicked to mine, bright and wide and flashing jade. “Bear comes _flying_ out of the bushes.”

He used his hands and his arms and his whole little body when he told those stories. I think that’s why the other kids got so into it because _he_ was so into it.

“And my dad,” Dean’s face split into a grin so full of pride and longing that my heart ached in my chest. “He just pulls up his shotgun and says, ‘got ya, ya sonuvabitch’ and _BLAMMO_!”

All the kids would gasp and clap and I… I tried not to immediately and publicly reprimand Dean for swearing. After taking so long to get him to share – even if the stories were clearly fictional – I never wanted to squash his spirit.

That wasn’t the first time Dean told a story like that, full of action and heroism – and violence. The week before, it was a pack of wolves that his dad took out with a profane quip and a silver knife. I’m was starting to wonder just what it was that John Winchester did for a living.

Then, one day, I finally met the legend.

“Dean,” I heard a deep, commanding voice.

It was early for parents to be picking their kids up, so I was surprised by his appearance. Perhaps he’d decided to take an interest in his son’s progress in school.

“Daddy!” Dean dropped what he was doing with the other kindergarteners and ran to his weary-looking father, arms open, pleading.

Except John Winchester didn’t scoop up his 6-year-old child, who so desperately sought his attention and approval. He gripped his shoulder and held him in place at his knee. “Get your things, Son,” he said.

I crossed the room, cautiously. John Winchester gave off an air of a brick and mortar castle surrounded by a moat filled with crocodile. But that was just another tall tale, right?

“Mr. Winchester?” I asked as I approached.

He glanced at me, dragged his eyes down and back up to meet my gaze then nodded. “I’m John Winchester,” he said.

“Mr. Winchester, I just wanted to tell you that your son Dean has made so much progress,” I began to gush. “You must be proud of him. He’s such a smart boy.”

John huffed a laugh and furrowed his brow as Dean scurried to his side with his jacket and backpack slung over his shoulder. 

“Well, he’s a tough little kid, that’s for sure,” John said, looking back at me.

To this day, I swear there was a challenge in his eyes. I’d seen it before; the parent who wanted their kid to be one thing and not an another, who’d go to lengths unheard of to make it so. John Winchester didn’t want a smart kid; he wanted a soldier.

“He’s my little badass, aren’tcha, Son?” John slapped a too-rough hand against Dean’s back, making him stumble forward a bit.

“Yes, sir,” Dean answered in a tone of voice I’d never heard.

“Well, thanks for lookin’ out for him these last weeks,” John said before turning and steering Dean toward the door.

“Wait,” I said, following, keeping my voice low as not to alarm the other children. “Are you leaving town?” I asked, looking down to catch Dean’s eyes, which were glued to the floor.

“We are,” John said with finality.

And then they were gone.

Years later and I’m hooked up to some life-force sucking machine, and who is it that saves me? Whose face do I see when I slowly come to consciousness?

“Hey,” he says, smiling down at me. “You’re gonna be ok, all right? Just sit up and lean on me. I’ll getcha outta here.”

I do as I’m told, disbelieving my own eyes.

“Sammy? You got the other one?” he calls and my skin prickles.

“Dean?” My voice is a hoarse whisper, he doesn’t even flinch.

He drags me from the building and out into the sunshine. He and his brother give me and the other survivor water.

“I’m Dean and this is my brother Sam,” he says, those soft, gregarious jade green eyes snag mine. “We’re gonna get you home safe.” He smiles, and I’m suddenly weeping.

“It’s ok,” he speaks quietly, squatting next to me, motioning to his brother then accepting a warm, wet rag that he uses to clean my face.

“Look at me,” he says, and I do.

“I’m just returnin’ the favor, Miss Claymore,” he says, that little boy smirk, gracing his handsome face.

And my tears are tears of joy.


End file.
